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Oyinladun TV, Ibadan (2025)

05/08/2025

Olori Eso!!!

No one plays the role of Olori Eso better than this man in old Yoruba 🎥.

05/08/2025

Billionaire’ F'emi Otedola in a telephone interview, was asked by the radio presenter, "Sir what can you remember made you a happy man in life?"

Femi said: “I have gone through four stages of happiness in life and finally I understood the meaning of true happiness.

The first stage was to accumulate wealth and means. But at this stage I did not get the happiness I wanted.

Then came the second stage of collecting valuables and items. But I realized that the effect of this thing is also temporary and the lustre of valuable things does not last long.

Then came the third stage of getting big projects. That was when I was holding 95% of diesel supply in Nigeria and Africa. I was also the largest vessel owner in Africa and Asia. But even here I did not get the happiness I had imagined.

The fourth stage was the time a friend of mine asked me to buy wheelchair for some disabled children. Just about 200 kids.

At the friend's request, I immediately bought the wheelchairs. But the friend insisted that I go with him and hand over the wheelchairs to the children. I got ready and went with him.

There I gave these wheel chairs to these children with my own hands. I saw the strange glow of happiness on the faces of these children. I saw them all sitting on the wheelchairs, moving around and having fun.

It was as if they had arrived at a picnic spot where they are sharing a jackpot wining.

I felt real joy inside me. When I decided to leave one of the kids grabbed my legs. I tried to free my legs gently but the child stared at my face and held my legs tightly.

I bent down and asked the child: Do you need something else? The answer this child gave me not only made me happy but also changed my attitude to life completely.

This child said: “I want to remember your face so that when I meet you in heaven, I will be able to recognize you and thank you once again.

05/08/2025

I just finished watching Iya ibeji's interview on Talk to B Podcast and I can say witches and wizards now live on social media to torment people's lives.

They will analyse your story and you be asking yourself if you're the one they're talking about.

The screenshot below was a letter from Baba Ibeji denying the children and laying a curse on himself if he ever seeks them...I've translated it to English

He wrote:

"I Sunday Johnson reject Taiye and kehinde today (19/10/2003). They are no longer mine, and if I ask after them, all my good things should go bad. I am not their father, I reject them on earth and in heaven. Call me ba*stard if I come back for them because they are not my children."

This man didn't ask after the children since then till when he saw that they are doing well because their mom had taken good care of them.

Instead of him to swallow his ego, seek his children and make amends...he went online to tell so much lies and subject the children and their mom to gross internet bullying and even physical attacks.

Iya Ibeji and her children went through a lot of bullying from social media bloggers...Awon Oni analysis isonu.

I'm happy she came out strong with her children...gbogbo eyin online bullies, who heartlessly, out of bitterness of soul, troll people you know nothing about...You need to repent.

05/08/2025

Everybody gets to a point in life where you sit down and start asking yourself some questions ":Am I truly a b@d, person, but that wasn't my intention!!", did I do wrong by standing up against what is wrong?... "

Dear Iyabo Ojo, you stood against pedo*phile, you were blamed for taking it too personal, you stood against bull*ying, you were also blamed for taking it too personal, you raised a daughter as a single mother and allowed Co parenting, yet you were blamed for celebrating that too much and exposing her to the world.

You did well as a mother and a woman, ped*ophile and bull*ying are nothing but cri*mes, joy of motherhood is seeing your children doing well, everyone coming for you has created a WhatsApp group where issues and people are discussed.

The crimes you committed are: fame. being a celebrity, having issues with their favorites, they are also taking the issues personally and at the same blaming you for taking issues personal.

Sit back, relax, this is a phase in your life that will surely pass, learn some lessons on this, and know this:whom God has blessed no one one can cu'rse. You are loved.

29/07/2025

💔 “They Called Me ‘the Widow Who Sells Puff-Puff’ — Until My Son Bought the Company That Fired His Father”

---

PART ONE — THE FIRE THAT BURNED MY NAME

My name is Ozioma.
I became a widow at 29.

My husband, Uchenna, worked at GoldenCore Manufacturing — one of the largest factories in the region. He was a supervisor.
Hardworking. Honest. Proud.

But one morning, he came home pale and shaken.

> “They accused me of stealing spare parts,” he said.
“They have no proof. But they want to make me the scapegoat.”

He begged. Pleaded.
But they fired him anyway.
No pension. No apology.

Three weeks later, he collapsed on the bathroom floor.
A silent stroke.
He died before we reached the hospital.

I stood at his grave with our two-year-old son, Ebuka, in my arms.
No job. No support.
Just ashes.

---

PART TWO — THE PUFF-PUFF STALL

I sold my wedding ring for ₦5,000.
Borrowed ₦2,000 from Mama Nkechi to buy flour, sugar, and oil.

That’s how the puff-puff business started.

I carried my basin on my head every morning to the factory gate — the same factory that fired my husband.

I stood in the heat. In the rain.
I fried. I smiled.
Even when workers whispered behind my back:

> “Na she be that widow wey dem sack her husband.”
“She dey sell puff-puff now? Chai…”

I endured.
For Ebuka.

I saved every naira.
Taught him to read with torn books.
Fed him with beans and hope.

And every time he asked,

> “Mummy, will we ever be rich?”
I smiled and said,
“We are rich in heart. The rest will come.”

---

PART THREE — EBULENT EBVUKA

Ebuka grew up fast.

By 10, he was solving math problems adults couldn’t.
By 13, he was winning spelling bees.
By 16, he was awarded a full scholarship to study computer science.

He worked night shifts, taught tutorials, and built websites to help pay our rent.
Then he entered a tech competition in Lagos — and won ₦2 million.

“Mummy,” he said, weeping.
“You never gave up. This is your harvest.”

He used part of the money to buy better equipment for my puff-puff stall.
He called it: “Mama Zee’s Delight.”

It went viral online.

Orders poured in.
People drove across town just to taste the puff-puff of “the widow who never quit.”

But Ebuka wasn’t done.

---

PART FOUR — THE BUYBACK

Years later, Ebuka founded a logistics-tech company.
He hired dozens of staff — many who came from poor homes like ours.
His business grew rapidly.

One day, he came home with a document.

> “Mummy,” he said. “Do you remember GoldenCore?”

I froze.

> “Yes.”

> “They went bankrupt. Their assets were auctioned. I bought the company. Every building. Every file. Every chair.”

I couldn’t speak.

He knelt and placed the papers in my lap.

> “They fired Daddy like trash. But today, you — the woman who sold puff-puff at their gate — you own them.”

---

PART FIVE — THE DAY I WORE RED

I attended the reopening ceremony in a red wrapper and gold blouse.

Some of the former directors came.
Their eyes widened when they saw me on stage beside the new owner — my son.

One whispered,

> “That’s the widow we used to mock.”
...............

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE COMMENTS

,

28/07/2025

Come advertise your goods and services. Sell your market under this post let’s patronize you. God bless your business .

26/07/2025

Copy...

I WENT TO MY FIANCÉ’S HOUSE TO SURPRISE HIM — BUT I FOUND HIM MARRYING MY BEST FRIEND

Episode I

Follow me Walex's Stories
My name is Amaka Chioma, and I am 26 years old. I live in Lagos City, but I am originally from Anambra State. I’ve always believed in love — the fairytale kind. The one where you meet someone, fall in love, and build a future together. And for a while, I thought I had found that with Michael.

Michael and I met three years ago at a friend’s birthday party in Surulere. He was charming, respectful, and hardworking — a business analyst with a bright future. We started dating, and within a year, he proposed. I said yes without thinking twice. I loved him. I trusted him with my whole life.

We planned to get married before the end of the year. Our families had already met, and we had even gone for introduction. Everything seemed perfect — at least from my side.

But something changed.

Michael started acting distant. He wouldn’t call as often. When I asked questions, he’d say, “Babe, work has been stressful,” or “I’m just tired.” I believed him. I didn’t want to be that insecure fiancée.

My best friend Sandra noticed the change too. She always told me to keep an eye on Michael, that men can be very slippery. But Sandra was always overprotective — she’d been my best friend since secondary school. More like a sister.

Then came the Friday that ruined my life.

Michael told me he would be traveling for work to Abuja for a few days. He said he needed the break, and I believed him. But deep down, I felt something wasn’t right. My spirit was not at peace.

So I decided to surprise him.

He didn’t know I had an extra key to his house — he gave it to me months ago and probably forgot. So I told my office I was sick and left work early. I bought a few groceries, made his favorite soup (Ofe nsala), and took a Bolt to his place at Ajah.

But as I got closer to his street, I noticed something strange.

The road was filled with parked cars. Some women were tying gele. Some men were dressed in agbada. There was a canopy outside his compound. Music was playing.

My heart started pounding.

I thought, Maybe it’s his uncle’s party... maybe it’s a neighbour’s wedding... But as I got closer, I saw a large banner at the gate.

“TRADITIONAL MARRIAGE OF MICHAEL & SANDRA”

I froze.

My bag dropped from my hand.

I read the banner again and again like my eyes were lying to me. But they weren’t. It was real.

Michael — my own Michael — was marrying Sandra, my best friend. The girl I told all my secrets. The girl who helped me pick my engagement dress. The same girl who told me she’d never betray me.

I didn’t know when tears poured down my face. I was shaking. My legs became weak.

People were laughing, dancing, eating.

I walked slowly into the compound. Some people turned to look at me. A woman whispered, “Isn’t that the girl that was supposed to marry him?”

I didn’t care.

I wanted to see it for myself.

I pushed through the crowd — and there he was. Michael, dressed like a king, holding Sandra’s hand. They were smiling. She was wearing a beautiful red wrapper, beads around her neck, laughing like she had won a trophy.

When Michael saw me, his smile disappeared. He froze.

Sandra turned and saw me too.

Her face dropped.

For a moment, the music seemed to stop. Time stood still.

I asked just one question, with a trembling voice:

“Why?”

Michael looked away.

Sandra opened her mouth, but no words came out.

I turned around.

I ran out of the compound with tears pouring like rain.

My world had ended.

Everything I believed in — love, friendship, trust — shattered in one day.

But that was just the beginning.

What came next will shock you…

TO BE CONTINUED…

26/07/2025

The Nollywood Actor odunlade Adekola losẹ̀s father.

Pastor N A Adekola is d3ad , may his gentle s0ul rest in peace Testimony Videos

25/07/2025

Rich Lady Splashed Mud on an Old Woman, Unaware She’s Her Husband’s Mother…”

Episode 3

The sky was clear, but my world had never been so clouded.

I stood frozen in front of my boutique, staring at the giant billboard that mocked everything I had ever worked for.

“Golden Vine Boutique — Coming Soon”
Right across the road.
Right where my best customers passed every day.
Right in front of my legacy.

It was more than a billboard.
It was a silent war declaration.

And at the corner of that banner — smiling softly, wrapped in a royal blue headtie — was the face of the woman I once splashed mud on.

Her name was written boldly:
“Maama Beatrice – Patron of Women Empowerment.”

She looked nothing like the weak, trembling fruit seller from the street that rainy day.
Now, she stood for something.
Now, the whole city was talking about her.

And I?
I was the villain of a viral video.

The moment the video dropped, it was as if the city itself turned its back on me.

A shaky phone camera had captured the exact moment I shouted from my SUV:
"Your days are numbered! Even poverty is tired of your face!"

It captured the splash.
The scream.
The humiliation.

People reposted it with captions like:

“This is why wealth without compassion is dangerous.”
“She insulted a queen in disguise.”

And the worst one?

“She splashed mud on her husband’s mother… unknowingly. And now, fate is washing her pride away in buckets.”

By the third day, I had lost nearly half of my VIP clients.
Some even returned their purchases and demanded refunds.
The rest silently unfollowed my business pages.

My staff whispered behind my back.
The once-busy boutique now echoed with silence.

But what broke me wasn’t the lost customers…

It was the silence of my husband.

He hadn’t called since the day he left.

Until that evening.

The message was short:

“I saw the video. Don’t reach out to my mother. Let time teach you what apologies cannot.”

I stared at the screen for minutes, then collapsed on the floor.

No man had ever made me cry like that.
Not even my father, who abandoned us when I was nine.

But this?
This felt like the slow death of everything I called home.

A week passed.

Then came the twist I didn’t expect.

A popular business magazine released a headline:

“From Mud to Millions: How a Humble Fruit Seller Built a Fashion Empire with Dignity.”

Inside the pages were pictures of Maama Beatrice…
…in meetings with international investors.
…hugging young girls at empowerment events.
…cutting ribbons beside governors’ wives.

She had become a symbol of grace.
A survivor.
A woman with a story.

Meanwhile, I had become the face of pride and disgrace.

I decided to confront her.

I needed to see her, face to face — not to beg, not to explain…
…but to ask her one question that kept burning in my chest like fire.

So I wore the plainest gown I owned, tied my hair back, and went to the stall by the mango tree — where her story began.

But when I got there, someone else was sitting on her stool.

A young girl.

I asked where Maama Beatrice was.

She looked at me strangely.

“She no longer stays here,” the girl said. “She sold the stand. She owns offices now — three of them. She doesn’t come back here.”

My lips trembled.
“I need to see her…”

The girl paused, then handed me a card.

“She left this. She said if any woman with ‘a painted face and a proud heart’ ever comes looking for her, she should give her this.”

I opened the card with shaky hands.

It had one sentence written in calm handwriting:

“When a woman uses her mouth to curse another, it echoes. But when her actions curse her soul, even silence becomes loud.”

No name. No address.
Just that line.

I stood there in the sun, tears rolling, realizing something heavier than humiliation had just hit me—

This woman had erased me without lifting a finger.

24/07/2025

Rich Lady Splashed Mud on an Old Woman, Unaware She’s Her Husband’s Mother…”

Episode 2

I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t blink.
I couldn’t even look my husband in the eye as we drove to the broken junction he now called “blessed.”
My hands trembled on my lap, hidden beneath the expensive silk of my designer dress.

The moment he said, “That’s her stand, just by the mango tree,” my heart fell to the ground.

She was sitting on a small stool…
…arranging bananas, groundnuts, and a few garden eggs on a tray.
Her wrapper was the same—still damp from yesterday.
But her eyes…

Her eyes were like knives.
Sharp. Quiet. Deep.
And the moment they met mine—she recognized me.

But she didn’t flinch.
She didn’t blink.
She simply looked at me like I was invisible.

My husband smiled and ran ahead like an excited boy.
"Maama!" he called, kneeling before her.

She cupped his face gently with both hands and said,
"My son… my eyes have seen you again."

Then her gaze rose slowly… and landed on me.

For a second, the whole world froze.

I tried to smile.
Fake. Crooked. Embarrassed.

She looked at me for a long, long moment… then said quietly,
"Is this your wife?"

"Yes, Maama!" my husband beamed. "Her name is Vivian. She’s amazing! Smart, rich, respectful. I couldn’t have asked for more."

Maama smiled faintly.

"Indeed… she is very… rich."

I swallowed.
I could feel her words slicing through me like chilled glass.

She stood slowly, wiped her hands on her wrapper, then bent and picked up the same muddy bucket she carried yesterday.

Before I could greet her, she turned to my husband and said,
"My son, I need to speak to you. Alone."

I panicked.

“No, please… I—”

But she turned and walked toward a nearby tree. My husband followed.
And I stood there… exposed… as passersby whispered.

That same girl who had insulted her just yesterday… now standing awkwardly before her stall.

The same stall I had once called “gutter disgrace.”

A few minutes later, my husband returned.

His face had changed.

The smile was gone.
His eyes no longer sparkled.
He didn’t look at me. He didn’t say a word.

He just walked past me, entered the car… and drove off.

He left me there.

I turned to Maama, confused, angry, shaking.
“What did you tell him?! Why did you—”

She held up her hand.

“I told him the truth.”

“What truth?” I snapped.

She looked at me with a kind of quiet that made my bones shiver.

“I told him how you treated an old stranger like trash… unaware you were spilling dirt on your own blessing.”

Her voice was calm, but it hit harder than a slap.

I stood there, humiliated, scared, and stuck between pride and shame.

“But why would you—”

She cut me off.
“I told him not to be angry with you,” she said. “I told him not to ask you any questions.”

Relief tried to fill me. But her next words crushed it.

“I told him to watch you.”
“To study your true character without your makeup, your money, or your masks.”

I froze.

“And I told him,” she added, “that if you ever come back here again, I will sell my fruits in silence and pretend you’re air.”

Tears gathered in my eyes.
“But I didn’t know—”

“Exactly,” she said sharply.
“You didn’t know. That’s why you misbehaved.
And that’s the problem with people like you.
You only respect people after you know what they’re worth.”

The days that followed were worse than any punishment.

My husband changed completely.
He stopped talking during meals.
He no longer kissed me goodbye.
He became distant, cold, and unreadable.

One night, I walked into his study and begged,
"Please talk to me… what’s going on?"

He looked at me. Slowly. Coldly.

"I used to think you were powerful. But now I see you’re just a woman in expensive shoes with a cheap heart."

Tears ran down my cheeks.

"You’re judging me for a mistake. I didn’t know she was your mother…"

He stood up, face hard.

"But you knew she was a human being. That should’ve been enough."

And then, he left the room.

A week later, the blow came.

He moved out of the house.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t fight.
Just left.

His lawyers sent me a message: “Time apart is necessary for healing.”

But I knew the truth.

My marriage was cracking… and it all began with the mud I splashed in pride.

One month later…

The real twist came like thunder.

A man in a suit walked into my boutique.
He handed me a court notice.

Maama had sold a piece of land to someone who wanted to use it to build a massive mall.

Guess what?

The land belonged to my husband.

Land he inherited from his late father… but didn’t know Maama still had the documents.

She never mentioned it until now.

Now guess who owned the land?

The same woman I insulted.

Guess who was building a boutique right in front of mine?

A new competitor… sponsored by Maama’s land money.

23/07/2025

“Rich Lady Splashed Mud on an Old Woman, Unaware She’s Her Husband’s Mother…”

Episode 1

My name is Vivian.
People call me "Madam V."
I dress like wealth, walk like success, and speak like a woman born with gold in her blood.
But they didn’t know—
I started from the gutters of pain, betrayal, and hunger.
What they see now is a woman shaped by scars, dressed in diamonds, and powered by pride.

But if only I had known that the woman I splashed dirty water on that rainy afternoon… was the same woman who gave life to my husband...
Maybe…
Just maybe…
I would’ve rolled down from that car myself and kissed her feet.

But life doesn’t always give warnings.

Let me take you back to how it all began.

It was the first Monday in March. The sky wore a gloomy face, and the rain poured like it had something against the world. I was late for a business pitch—a multi-million naira boutique expansion deal. My car splashed through the flooded street, and then—a loud scream.

I looked through the tinted window and saw her—an old woman, soaked from head to toe in muddy water, trying to gather the scattered bananas and oranges that had spilled from her basin.

She was kneeling in the middle of the road, trembling.

Her wrapper was soaked, her feet bare, and her face…

Her face was something I should have looked at closer.

But no—
Pride had eaten my soul.

I lowered the glass just slightly, scoffed, and shouted,
"Next time, stay in your gutter place, old woman!"
Then I laughed, the type of laugh that cuts.
I added,
"Your days are numbered! Even poverty is tired of your face!"

And with that, I rolled the glass back up, threw on my sunglasses, and asked my driver to move.
Note_ this story belongs to jennylight any other page aside from hers stole it.
The old woman didn’t speak.
She just stood there, frozen, her eyes following my car like someone who had just seen her past return in a new body.

That night, something strange happened.

My husband came home unusually excited.

"Vivian!" he called.
"You won’t believe who I saw today!"

"I’m too tired for gist, darling," I replied, sipping my wine, legs crossed, already scrolling through Instagram, admiring a luxury necklace I wanted to order.

He smiled.

"I saw my mother."

My hand froze.

"What?" I asked slowly.

"My mother! After so many years. Remember I told you she disappeared when I was little? Everyone thought she died. Vivian, she’s alive! And guess what? She stays right here in this city… and sells fruits by the roadside near that old broken junction."

Suddenly, my throat dried.
My stomach twisted.
The wine turned bitter.

I turned to him, heart pounding, face pale.
"What… does she look like?" I asked, trying to act casual.

He smiled brightly.
"She’s aged, of course. Grey hair, tiny frame… her eyes still hold that spark. But…"

He paused.
"She told me something that shocked me."

I swallowed hard.
"What did she say?"

He looked at me for a long moment and said,

"She said a rich woman in a black SUV splashed her with dirty water today… laughed at her, and called her ‘gutter trash.’ She said she didn't get angry. She just watched the car drive off. But she told me something strange…"

I couldn’t breathe properly. I felt my hands shake.

He continued.

"She said, ‘That woman will kneel before me one day, without knowing who I am. She will cry not because I cursed her, but because life will teach her the kind of lesson that no money can erase.’"

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